


Corrective Maintenance

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Cock Warming, Cyberpunk, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degradation, Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Hydra Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spit As Lube, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Steve tightens his hold a little, stroking his thumb along the seam of the metal plate where it meets skin near the line of Stark’s jaw."Tell me, Stark. How much of you is really dead?"
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, uh. happy halloween?
> 
> anywho, this is not my usual. please read the tags before jumping in.

At 1930 hours, he's waiting for his target to show. 

This one took a while, but he found him. He always finds them.

The reason being cleanliness and efficiency, which are the two primary principles he stands by. Some of the other mercenaries in their ranks find him unnerving to be around. Apparently, hIs practices are too clinical. Steve can't see how not taking prisoners is an undesirable trait. _“Wanted: Dead or Alive”_ is not a question of morality, but one of cost effectiveness. A question easily solved, at least in his book. 

If you ask him, mastering indifference is key, and he’s the best in this métier for a reason. This line of business punishes the ones who wait, who pause and hear both sides, who allow doubt to tarnish the simplicity of the mission.

Steve distantly remembers being like that. Once. They never believe him unless he tells the whole story–the one that involves the chapter where they dragged him away, into the underground labs, those that run the kind of experiments not even a corporation with an influence the likes of Hi-dra can let the public know of. 

These days, there is little they can’t do without facing consequences. The other governmental corporations will give them a slap on the wrist if anything at all, because the reality is–they need Hi-dra more than it needs them. Hi-dra keeps the peace within the city, as much peace as there will ever be. They’re what’s standing between them and chaos, uprisings, the lower-class scum. If AIM and the like were to decide they didn’t need Hi-dra, chances are Hi-dra would get rid of them instead. 

People like Steve are the root of their power. One of many individual cogs that can be used and replaced at will. Maintenance comes cheap with the business model they run. Desperate people will sell themselves short, and no one ever really makes it out once their debt is settled. Most remain indebted until death.

Steve dreamed of getting out. Then, the experiments finally bore fruit. 

Steve’s heard whispers they made adjustments to the serum since he received it. Why, he isn’t sure; he's learned to control himself since his first few assignments. And yet, the others tend to get an odd look in their eyes when he indulges in their requests to tell his story, the one of the lab and his final rebirth. They always seem awfully eager to end their conversation as soon as possible once he’s finished.

Steve doesn’t mourn the man he was before. His old self caused him to miss out on many a precious opportunity, made him hesitate when he should’ve pounced, made him weak. 

_Indecision is the hunter’s greatest enemy, for while the wolf considers the sheep’s right to live, the sheep has already found shelter, not considering the wolf’s need for sustenance._

That’s what he was told, on that day. After he’d let a wanted delinquent get away because the man had blindsided Steve's rationale with pictures of his infant daughter and pled with him that he couldn’t orphan her. That it wasn’t right. That he would kill her too, leave her to starve. 

Back then, Steve was too weak-willed to finish the mission. Today? Today, he’d see to it that the man wouldn’t get the chance to speak a word. Even if it were to happen, Steve wouldn’t be bothered anymore.

They fixed him. 

Freed from the shackles of misguided morals, Steve has discovered that the criminal scum of this city are cunning. They have to be; the ones that aren’t go as quickly as they come, ants under Hi-dra’s boot. Who knows whether the man’s daughter existed? His tears may very well have been just as contrived as the raw desperation in his words, his cries a trick to sway the emotional parts of Steve’s hindbrain.

Not anymore.

Steve adjusts his grip on the supersonic rifle. He'd be labeling it as excitement, but he knows it's adrenaline that's ramping up his pulse. This is the moment he’s waited for since he’s been handed his most recent assignment, and it is somewhat of a special occasion. 

He takes one last look at the hologram of the file projected in front of him.   
  


`**TARGET:** ANTHONY E. STARK | **WANTED:** ALIVE`  
  
`**LAST KNOWN LOCATION:** JAIOLD SQUARE (11-21-2177)`  
  
`**AGE:** UNKNOWN | **DATE OF BIRTH** : UNKNOWN`  
  
` **PHYSICAL APPEARANCE** **  
** HEIGHT: 5’7” to 5’9” | HAIR: BROWN | EYE COLOR: BROWN  
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: CYBERNETIC IMPLANTS in SKULL (TOP/BACK), FACE (LEFT), NECK (FRONT/RIGHT), ARM (RIGHT/UPPER), CHEST (UNKNOWN), SPINE (ALL), LEG (LEFT/LOWER)`

`**INDICTABLE OFFENSES** : ACCESSING AND PUBLICIZING OF STATE SECRETS, DEFAMATION OF GOVERNMENTAL AUTHORITIES, GRAND THEFT, DISTRIBUTION OF DIGITAL AND PHYSICAL CONTRABAND, EXTORTION, FORGERY`  
`  
**WEAKNESSES:** RELIANCE ON CYBERNETIC ENHANCEMENTS, SEVERE TECHNICAL MALFUNCTIONS POSSIBLY FATAL, CHEST IMPLANT (???)  
` `**STRENGTHS:** HIGH INTELLECT (189-212), TECHNICAL SAVVY, RESOURCEFULNESS, ADAPTIVE NATURE`  
  
`**THREAT ASSESSMENT:** VERY HIGH  
**PRIOR ATTEMPTS AT DETAINMENT** : 14  
`  
`**RECOMMENDED STRATEGY:** STALK AND POUNCE, NEMNP (NEO-ELECTROMAGNETIC-NANOPULSE), MIDAZOLAM (4 DOSES)`

`**ASSIGNED:** S.G.R.`

  
  


Anthony E. Stark, on Hi-dra’s radar for multiple decades and Steve's personal target for close to a month, pushes aside the manhole cover in the dirty back alley below and, after a brief glance at his surroundings, crawls out like the sewer rat he is.

This is his main way of getting around, which is only one of many interesting details about his person. It took Steve most of the last month to find him, tracking dozens of cold leads that fizzled out into nothing, intercepting petabytes of data traffic and breaking up more than one exchange of black market merchandise. His patience paid off once he got hold of someone who could point him into the direction of a merchant that was delivering this particular tech. 

Steve then tracked down that man, his supplier, the man who’d supplied the supplier and lastly, the woman at the end of the trail who–after a short heart-to-heart with his ability to effortlessly break bone–shared where and how she’d met with the infamous Anthony Stark himself.

24 days is his personal record for longest time taken to pin down a criminal on the loose, but seeing as the fourteen previous attempts Hi-dra made to apprehend Stark failed miserably, he reckons the result is acceptable. Pierce certainly seemed satisfied when he delivered his last status report.

Stark is slippery. And he has all the quirks of a man constantly made to look over his own shoulder: he’s meticulous in the way he keeps to himself, pedantic in his sharing of information and his travels to and from places in the city. Even the way he moves is ever-calculated, every step one taken after an instance of consideration. If he were to guess, he'd say paranoia is the man's middle name.

To this day, Steve doesn’t have the least notion of where his hideout is located. There would be a great deal of useful information and prototypes to be discovered in that place, but he knows not to push his luck. The company wants Stark, they’ll get Stark. He isn’t doing additional homework to get a gold star on his resume. They never thought to write off more debt per target neutralized just because he was especially thorough.

Break into a run off the roof, brace for impact–it comes naturally to him now. The old courthouse is one of the few buildings downtown that aren’t touching the belly of the ever smog-covered sky. Instead, it sits there as a bulky relic from the early last century in the middle of a modern metropolis, sticking out like a sore thumb. (How considerate of Stark to pick his favorite place as their rendezvous point.)

Steve lands on the cracked asphalt in the alley to its left–the one Stark has been showing up at every second Thursday for the last fourteen weeks at just this time. Seems his informant was telling the truth. It won’t help the fact that she’s dead now, but Steve appreciates the honesty nonetheless.

Stark knows he means trouble from the very moment they come face to face. Why else would he be strategically obstructing his only way out of the dead end at his back? 

His eyes shrink to small slits, walk coming to an instant halt just as Steve rises from his crouched position. Steve is positive the file said his eyes were brown, not the artificial, glowing blue he's looking at presently. Stark appears uncharacteristically spooked for a man with his history, but Steve won’t lull himself into a false sense of security. There’s a reason he hasn’t been caught yet.

The street lantern on the main road behind Steve throws his shadow on the rain-slick ground in front of him, a long and misshapen copy of himself. Stark’s just there at the head of it, give or take twenty feet away. 

Steve only has to lunge at him.

Stark bolts. 

Turning on his heel, he sprints back into the alley that won’t take him anywhere and Steve lets him, wanting to indulge in a little play of cat and mouse. What’s the harm? Might even be a bit of a challenge for a change. 

The man keeps running straight onward, and Steve has to admit he doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t for Stark to jump right at the building blocking his way. It’s the miniature thruster embedded in his boots that gives him the edge to push himself back off the façade of the building, but the core strength lies in his own body. It’s an astonishing performance. He leaps right over Steve where he’s standing, rolls, and keeps on running.

Steve would take time to marvel at the technology, were it not for Stark navigating them out of the alley and further down the avenue, where corporate headquarters make way for housing blocks. This is why they’re so adamant that he brings him in alive, then. Stark’s tech has been a threat to them. Naturally, making it theirs and becoming the threat would be the logical next step. 

While he can appreciate the craftsmanship, he doesn't like it. Steve has shuddered at what the reports said Stark has done to his body. He himself has been forcibly molded into something else, but the idea of brutalizing _yourself_ to such a degree is not sitting right with him. At least Steve remains Steve, at his core. Stronger, better, more efficient and some would argue more brutal, but it’s what was already there that has changed and improved.

Stark, on the other hand… Nobody who’s alive today knows the extent of what he’s done to himself. Those people are long dead, or maybe wish they were. Stark has lived far past his expiration date, but he refuses to die with such vehemence that today he’s barely qualifying as living anymore. 

The man jumps and lunges for the metal staircase against the exterior of the building, his robotic arm bending at an odd angle as it curls around the banister to pull him up. Steve remains in relentless pursuit, taking the steps four at a time.

Steve doesn’t know if it’s idiocy, a fear of death or megalomania (or all three) that has gotten Stark so convinced being more machine than human is an existence worth striving for. Whatever it is–and it doesn’t concern him, Steve is only here to complete his task–makes him feel almost a shred of sympathy for the man when he catches up to him on the rooftop.

Sympathy is the wrong word. Pity, more like. Pity, because Stark looks like he didn’t expect this to be a possibility. He was so sure nobody would ever be able to match him it catches him off-guard now. Even so, he’s devising another plan; Steve sees it in that unblinking stare of his as he scans the immediate vicinity for a way out. 

And, although they’ve just climbed a rooftop in the middle of downtown, he’ll find one if Steve hesitates long enough. This was nice enough, but Steve’s got his share of activity for the day. If we wraps this up quickly, he might make it back before the clock reads 2100. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he tells Stark, like they’ve been casually conversing the entire time, and fishes the small disc out of the pouch on his utility belt. 

Rooting Stark out was a hassle. This final act of the play is not so much a climax as it is shooting fish in a barrell.

Stark locks onto the device and has the audacity to bark a laugh. “What, an EMP? Do I look like a kindergartener to–”

Steve presses its one button and the man’s whole body convulses instantaneously, choking him in his mockery. While powerful, the range on it is short. Steve appreciates Stark's decision to ridicule the tool instead of deciding on the smart move, which would be to flee. Someone who grows content with his superiority and underestimates Hi-dra’s potential rightfully pays the price.

The man falls to his knees like a puppet with no strings attached, fingers twitching, eyes wide and lips agape in a silent scream. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and when his trembling hands come up to clutch frantically at his chest and throat, the metaphor becomes reality.

He approaches at a leisurely pace until his boots knock the kneeling man’s legs, meeting Stark’s wild, wide-eyed glare with an amicable smile. “What were you going to say? I didn’t catch that, Anthony.”

Stark’s nostrils flare, his stinging, blue gaze reduced to a dimly flickering one. His eyes are indeed brown, underneath whatever tech usually shields them from sight. A pity, because they’re exceptionally pretty; chocolate, hickory and umber. Big, reminiscent of a deer’s. Of prey.

He locks one hand around the man’s jaw and Stark seems to not even have the presence of mind to be alarmed by it. Understandable. All else has comparatively minimal priority when your body notices a lack of oxygen in your bloodstream. Steve remembers that vividly from when they put him in the ice.

“I can’t,” Stark breathes with the last wisp of air he manages to force out of his lungs, the words near inaudible, “breathe. You’ll kill me before... you get...”

Steve makes a sound as though he’s surprised by the news. He tightens his hold a little, stroking his thumb along the seam of the metal plate where it meets skin near the line of Stark’s jaw. “Shame, isn’t it, that you’ve made so much of the human experience obsolete for yourself and didn’t think to put the need for air on the list?” He tsks. “Must be feeling really stupid for not considering that, I’m sure.”

A tear escapes the man’s eye, perhaps as a result of physical exertion or desperation; either way, it's Steve's doing and more than satisfactory. When he blinks to clear his vision, another drop follows. 

His eyes are more expressive for the liquid swimming in them. The artist in Steve thinks it’s lovely, how the colorful city lights reflect off of this manifestation of his suffering; so much so his fingers itch with the long-lost urge for a paintbrush.

“Whatever you want, I’ll do it."

He's practically mouthing the words, but Steve has no problem understanding. There’s a blue tinge to his lips, drawing his gaze to them. They become another point of intrigue, plush and pretty as they are even drained from all their rosy color. 

1950 hours. Steve figures he's got time to take what’s offered.

The dead parts Steve might not like looking at, but he’s sure the most important bits of Stark have remained soft, pliable flesh. Human, even when the rest of him so decidedly refuses to be. And that’s alright–if Stark wants to shed his mortal coil, he’s free to. He just shouldn’t expect to keep his human dignity when he does. 

Everyone else only gets to pick the one, after all.

Unhurried, Steve takes the NEMNP back out and deactivates it. Stark gasps for breath, sucks it in through _greedy_ gulps in the way he seems to treat many things including his privileges as a free man. Greed is a disease that deserves to be expunged. His chest is heaving violently as his heart and lungs–both presumably mechanical–work at transporting oxygenated blood back into the deprived areas of his body. 

Steve produces another handy gadget from his arsenal, bends over Stark who's still indulging in the sweet relief of air, and grabs a tuft of the man's hair to forcibly expose his neck. Once he jams the small needle into the skin, Stark jerks away and falls onto his back, flailing as his strained muscles fail to keep up.

It doesn’t matter that he crawls away on all fours to bring distance between them, with the drugs already in his bloodstream. And sure enough: When Stark tries to rise, he tumbles like he's three sheets to the wind and then keels over again, crash-landing on his hands and knees. One of his hands is metal but the other one is flesh, and it bleeds when it skits over the graveled concrete. 

The streak of red kicks loose an avalanche of unexplained need within Steve, its sight beautifully striking. He approaches the man, who rolls over and shuffles away like he can smell his intentions the way prey sniffs out a predator in the air. 

Steve squats down next to him, putting one knee on his chest as he makes to rise. Stark sounds a choked, wounded noise when Steve presses hard against his sternum–and suddenly stops resisting. It takes no effort at all to force him down onto his back. 

"Didn't think you'd still cry," Steve says, dragging a thumb along Stark's bottom eyelid until a drop of liquid seeps out, like squeezed from a ripe fruit. "But look at you now." 

"Fuck you," Stark spits. Saliva hits Steve's chin. "Who do you work for, huh? Who's so afraid of me they think sending some asshole to violate me is going to change my mind about anything I do?" 

Steve chuckles at the rather simplistic assumption, nonchalantly wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "Oh, they didn't send me to do _this_. This is just for me. Collecting my payment early, you could say." 

Stark's eyes widen a fraction, just enough to communicate that the implications of what has been said leave him… not afraid, but apprehensive. 

Shouldn't he be indifferent to these punishments of the flesh? After all, he's done worse things to himself dozens of times before, carved out meat and bone to replace it with iron and circuitry. What is a violation of bodily autonomy in comparison, really? Isn't this raw, animal desire of Steve's more natural than the whir of Stark's mechanical parts as he weakly pushes against him in protest? 

He should be happy Hi-dra wants him alive, or else he wouldn't even be getting the chance to partake in this exchange. The point is never to intimidate. Hi-dra doesn't have any reason to exercise their power for theatrics, they've long outgrown the need for show and dance. As always, it comes down to returns on investment–and they see fit to pursue Stark so relentlessly because they're aware of the possible reward. 

Ruminant, Steve tilts his head as he looks down at the man in his wake. Yeah, he will ask for the privilege to break him in. And Pierce will grant his request because he's done a better job hunting Stark down than anyone else ever has or would have, and that is deserving of a little treat if nothing else. 

This will be then. Now he just wants a taste of what's to come. 

He can’t quite place how long it’s been, but he thinks it has to have been before the serum, and most of those memories are blurry now. One thing he does remember is the feeling of wet heat around his cock, and his own hand decidedly isn't the same.

"Tell me, Stark. How much of you is really dead?" 

The man's eyes narrow and his upper lip twitches with anger. There's no answer, but Steve is known for his impeccable patience. He allows Stark to throw his little fit and lets his hand roam over the man's body. If he won't come out with it, Steve's going to find out on his own terms. 

His chest bears the sharp edge of a circular plate embedded in its dead center. A little further down, Steve's hands meet soft tissue–Stark's stomach flutters with his shallow breath and feels delicate compared to the unwelcoming edges of the metal above. With his size, well… if he goes and presses into the lower abdomen later, he'll be able to feel himself there. That might just be the most natural intrusion Stark's body will have known.

Steve's hand travels over the man's hip, down his thigh and comes to rest on the round of his behind. He squeezes the supple flesh, gratified in the way it yields under his fingers. Oh, Stark will do just fine. 

"Hope you're prepared to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life," Stark grits out somewhere above him, tone both scathing and resigned. He knows he’s not going to stop it from happening and has gone on to ponder a point later in time. Imagining his revenge to be particularly sweet, as it seems. 

_Revenge is the solatium of the beaten man._ _  
_ _Never be that man, Steve. Be better._

If Pierce knows one thing, it's how to give grand words meaning. 

Steve's mouth twists into a lopsided smile. Not long after hearing those words, he's stopped needing sleep for the most part. If he presents his case convincingly enough, Pierce might even allow Stark to stick around his quarters during those nights he spends with both eyes open–preferring insomnia over another dream. 

Steve indulges in the fantasy for a moment: completing a mission, returning to a warm body already waiting, losing himself in it. Not having to be alone. Channeling his frustrations into something other than gym gear and adversaries, both of which leave something to be desired in terms of durability. Naturally, it would take time, but he can see Stark coming around at some point. Even that too-smart brain of his will come to the inevitable conclusion that there's no point in struggling and making life harder on himself when exemplary behavior will get him rewarded in various ways.

 _Soon,_ Steve promises himself. _Field test first._

The man kicks out, albeit feebly, when Steve zips his pants open. He considers putting the cuffs on, then decides against it. Stark wants to resist a little, make the encounter more memorable for both of them? Steve won't stop him. His dick agrees, already tenting his pants in a manner that's bordering on impossible to ignore. 

See, he can't be blamed for being a little over-eager. Steve could have sought out exclusive brothels or asked for all the premium escorts the city could possibly offer. It was even suggested to him during one of his physical exams; celibacy isn't recommended for someone of his kind, who should be working off stress in ways other than violence.

Could have, but Steve refused. They didn't grasp his reasoning–that it felt plastic, unnatural, fundamentally wrong to hire a person for an act that should be the opposite of all these unwanted qualities.

Now _this,_ however _._ This is pure. The rapid rise and fall of Stark's chest, the tremble of his hands as he bats at Steve's spit-wet fingers around his limp cock, how his carefully crafted exterior crumbles and exposes the animalistic instinct of _flee escape run_ underneath, curbed only by the drugs in his system and the knowledge that any attempt to flee won't bear fruit. 

Steve flips him over. Stark pants in both fury and immediate fatigue as he writhes on the floor while his body is arranged to Steve's liking, "At least have the _fucking_ balls to look me in face. Bastard _._ " 

"Sure, anything you want. Next time." 

Steve revels in the perverse pleasure that comes from watching Stark freeze in momentary shock at the promise. No, this isn't just a once-off encounter. Steve will see to it. 

His arousal grows unbearably painful as he takes in the man laid out in front of him; Stark himself is truly as sinful as his deeds. Some estimate he must’ve been around for over a century by now, but there’s nothing in his appearance that reflects his age. One might dare say it's his own fault for shaping himself into such a creature a man is unable to resist. 

Steve aches to undress him fully, look upon all that olive skin and count the places where it’s marred with scars and penetrated by metal, but there’s no time for thorough exploration. He pushes Stark’s pants down to his knees and his shirt up his back; his spine reveals itself as a long, iron snake coiling from his neck over the slope of his back to the crack separating the swell of his ass.

He traces it with the pads of his fingers, feeling along the nubs that are just slightly raised above the pitted skin and wonders if the torture Stark’s subjected himself to measures up to the one he’s lived. Who's to say? They might not be so different after all. 

Stark shudders, then tenses when Steve's fingers slip further down between his cheeks. Or tries to, since the muscle relaxant prevents him from doing much of anything but helplessly clench and unclench his little, furled hole. 

Once Steve's finger is engulfed up to the second knuckle in the warm sleeve of Stark's asshole, it takes all the willpower left within him not to immediately replace the one digit with his dick. Resisting the temptation is torturous, but he can’t very well send Stark to medical right away. Pierce won’t mind if he’s a little banged up–he will be worse off once they begin breaking him in–but his employer won’t take kindly to irreversible damages done. 

Steve gathers saliva in his mouth and then spreads Stark’s cheeks to spit it out, watching as it drips down his cleft. He rubs the liquid in with two fingers, too impatient to start on one, unwilling to waste time on anything but the bare minimum. When he forces a third finger in much too soon, Stark eventually makes noise: a choked whimper that he stifles before Steve can properly savor it. 

That's all there is. He doesn’t cry and doesn’t beg. Steve expected nothing less from someone of his caliber, but they’re far from done. There are a lot of opportunities left to coax noises out of the man.

Finally, he allows himself to free his erection, leaving it to spring up toward his stomach. It comes as no surprise that he’s fully erect and wet with pre-come, not when he spent so long in abstinence and the parts of Stark that aren’t machine look appetizing to a criminal degree.

A pleasant surge of anticipation rolls through him as the head of his dick greets the man's entrance. Stark seems to suddenly be struck with the realization that what he's expected all along will occur in just a moment, and his hands reach out to fumble for leverage in front of him. A hopeless quest to escape Steve's touch. He must know there's no point in trying, yet he drags himself along the ground regardless before collapsing–face-down with a defeated grunt–into a sad heap. 

Steve doesn't care to bide his time anymore. He lifts the man's hips, guides his cock into position and breaches him without much warning. Stark whimpers as the air gets pushed out of his lungs through a wheeze, then clenches his mouth shut. He forces his breath out of his nose in shuddering pants, determined not to give Steve the gratification of hearing him cry out. 

Not that Steve is paying much attention. He's mainly savoring the sensation of Stark's insides tugging and spasming around his dick, a religious experience that ascribes a new meaning to the hollow word that is _faith._ With a satisfied groan, Steve bottoms out–and can only bear to hold out for a heartbeat or two before he starts rocking into the body beneath him at a slow pace that grows less measured with every time he repeats his assault. 

Stark's fingers have a clawed grip on the ground below, his face resolutely pressed into the dirt to ensure Steve won't be able to see him or his possibly telling facial expressions. What he doesn't seem to be aware of is that to be regarded with this fierce defiance is more satisfying than any of these other, minor details could ever be. 

Steve snaps his hips forward a fraction harder. His next thrust comes at a curious angle, which has Stark giving a full-body twitch and his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The moan spills over his lips like boiling water from a kettle that’s been simmering for too long, and Steve feels warm validation pooling in his gut right alongside the already pleasant arousal.

More forcefully this time, he repeats the movement. The side of Stark’s face scrapes over the concrete below, and the sound forced out of his lungs might be one of both pleasure and pain. Steve’s pace doesn’t falter and doesn’t slow. 

Stark is half-hard when Steve takes him in hand, and his cheek is visibly torn open as he jerkily shakes his head and moans “no”, the first time he's uttered anything even close to a plea. 

“Look at that.” Steve grunts as he quickens his speed, sacrificing long thrusts for sharp stabs. “Nobody's touched you since you made yourself this way, have they?”

His pelvis slams into Stark’s rear with brutish force every time he drives back in, and he squeezes his eyes shut to relish the glorious friction and warm moisture of the walls gripping him. 

“Were they afraid? Afraid of what you are, what you’ve become?” he asks, not receiving an answer beyond a choked groan as he roughly twists his fingers around the man’s erection. “I know what you really are, Stark. You’re nothing to be afraid of.”

There’s a sob. It’s like fuel to fire for the arousal flooding his veins.

This is how he imagined it should be; primal, dirty, a continuous build toward a peak just out of reach. Salvation from this numbness that he's so used to taking his each and every sensation and wringing it out like a soaked rag until all the colors are gone. Sucked down the drain before he can get a glimpse. 

The city used to be full of color, back then. _Before._ Now, rainbows in puddles coated with oil are just dirty puddles. A skyscraper checkered with (un)lit offices is nothing but light pollution. And sunrise only announces yet another day the city may lose its serendipitous equilibrium between absolute chaos and total despotism. 

Stark might be the exception to the rule, as much of a curiosity as he is. (Or perhaps especially because he is one.) It is this that drove Steve this far in the first place: icy blue, soft brown underneath and vivid red against lifeless concrete.

Steve fucks like it's his last time, buries himself deep and spills his release with a shout and the image of Stark wrapped in colorful silk cloths hovering in front of his inner eye. 

As fast as it's come, the exhilaration of his orgasm is swept away. Steve pulls out, ignoring the gush of what he knows is more than his own spend, tucks himself away and is clinical in his way of dressing Stark back up. A faint, satisfied something thrums in the back of his head as he sees that he wasn't alone in his climax, but he doesn't comment on the fluid dripping from Stark's stomach onto the ground below.

The sight is affirmation enough. In any case, Stark looks too out of it to catch any smugness in his voice. There are faint trembles shaking him, dried tear tracks streaking his face and a faraway look in his eye. If it's resignation, spite or just the drugs is anyone's guess.

It's 2010 hours. He should be on his way back. 

Steve rises to his feet and pauses, looking out over the city from the vantage point that is the rooftop they've found themselves on. He can make out sirens in one direction, gunshots and screams in the other. This city crawls with scum of the worst kind–be it Stark on one or Steve on the other side–smells of waste, piss and toxic fumes, and will either eat you alive or spit you back out worse than you were. 

Up close, Steve can't think of a place he despises more. From a distance? It's beautiful.

He casts a glance at Stark who hasn't moved an inch from where he's left him on the floor. For him, Steve feels, it's the opposite. Now that they've come face to face, he draws Steve in unlike anything in this city ever has. 

And he's aware he should hand Stark over, complete the mission as it were, but he feels as though his own end goal isn’t quite the one it was. A conflict of interest, you could call this: what reason does he have to dance to Pierce's tune to be granted another taste when he already _has_ Stark? 

Steve found him when Hi-dra couldn't. 

Steve and Hi-dra aren't one. 

Hi-dra may have shaped him into the perfect soldier, but they have no say in who he is today. Not anymore. They gave him the tools to surpass not only his previous self but them as well, and they're naïve to think he wouldn't notice it happening or care even if he did. 

Pierce believes he's still the impressionable man he once convinced could simply work off his debt and walk away when everything's said and done. But Steve has evolved from a science experiment to a lethal force that is all the deadlier for knowing its worth, while Perce has stagnated and grown content with what he believes is a position of eternal power.

Gullible is what he is, more than Steve has ever been. He's tired of playing dancing monkey for a man who has stopped being on his eye level all too long ago. Let them have his head on a pitchfork; Steve will help put it there. 

Steve removes his knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh, takes a few steadying breaths and begins to dig for the implant in his neck. 

Anthony Stark is his. 

And Steve Rogers is no one's soldier. 

(At 2100 hours, Steve Rogers is a free man.) 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little something more because the image popped up in my head one day and wouldn't go away (and i really need to stop thinking about it). 
> 
> don't think i have to say this, but the non-con tag still very much applies.

There's a knock on the door. 

Steve grips his pen a little harder in annoyance and casts a glance at the pendulum clock on the wall opposite his desk. He has another five mission reports to go over and by the looks of it some bones to pick with three of the authors, whether figuratively or literally remains yet to be determined. 

Inferiority in numbers and armament he can excuse, negligence and ignorance less so. Their writing appears intentionally vague however, so it's to be expected they'll fall into the latter category. Which presents him with a host of additional problems, most of which related to the blood in this suit he's supposed to be wearing for their visitor later this evening. 

More importantly, he'll have to leave to get it cleaned and he doesn't trust the people in HQ with Tony; his latest attempt at escape would've succeeded were it not for Steve's untimely return. 

The knock returns and, before Steve can demand what justifies the disturbance, the door opens to reveal his secretary. Sharon would (attempt to) shoot him if she was aware this is how he refers to her in his head, but it can't be denied that this is precisely her occupation when she isn't infiltrating Hi-dra for a change. 

"Romanoff is here," she says, neutral although the glint in her eyes betrays that she knows the meaning of the words to be a weightier one. 

"Excuse me?" 

Steve looks at the clock again. Five minutes past four. Their appointment is in three hours. 

"She insists. Says she'll see you now or never."

Steve lets himself fall back into the leather cushions of the chair and clasps his hands on the table in front of him. For a few seconds, he breathes, lets the anger roll off his shoulders. 

"She's aware of the time?" 

Sharon says, "She knows what she's doing." 

So this is how it'll be. 

Steve was positive he'd been as transparent as a slab of concrete during their first meetup, but it seems Romanoff has figured him out regardless. Ideally, she would've stayed oblivious to her own upper hand until the very end. The truth remains that Steve needs her more than she needs them and while he hates relying on outsiders, there's no one better equipped to do this job. 

And so he nods. "Five minutes."

The door falls close and Steve pushes the unreviewed reports aside. Relics of the past is what they call physical copies nowadays; Steve prefers the term 'safety guarantee'. He's learned from Hi-dra’s mistakes. There will be no digital record of any of his dealings because everything that's ones and zeroes can be accessed by an outsider with the right amount of skill and grit–Anthony E. Stark is only the tip of the iceberg. 

From the liquor cabinet to the left, he gets two glasses and whiskey–no, vodka. Imported, Russian. He knows how to treat a woman who can kill with both a paper clip and a sultry smile. 

Then, he sits back down and gives four successive knocks to his desk. Tony, stretched out on the chaise longue in front of the windowed wall, twitches but ultimately doesn't move. Instead, he buries deeper into the heap of furs he's wrapped himself in–Steve doesn't always like it but he has to admit he gets more done when his gaze doesn't get drawn to Tony's naked skin after every other page. 

"Don't make me ask, sweetheart," Steve warns. He thumbs the little device in his left pocket. Tony knows perfectly well what happens when he has to ask. 

He seems to recall as much now, because he finally swings his legs over the side of the seat and stands, dragging one of the blankets after him. His walk is a little clumsy, it always is when he's like this, but he bridges the few feet to Steve's chair without falling or even stumbling. 

Steve recalls the very beginning, when he'd had them reverse-engineer the NEMNP to modify its output and give it a power dial: Tony had taken seven attempts to make it to the desk even on the lowest setting. These days, they're up to four and he's walking. Steve sees how that may turn out to be a problem one day, predicts it even, but it's a problem he will address another day. 

Right now, there's only one thing he wants to address. 

Tony crawls into his lap. Four knocks. Three would be under the desk, and two would mean on the rug in front of it. Steve preens a little at how well he's taken to this new system. He doesn't know how it's different from being told 'Sit on my cock', 'Give me your mouth' or 'Ass-up on the floor'. Maybe something to do with dignity or a sentiment equally misplaced. 

In any case, Steve doesn't care as long as the final outcome is the same and there's less fuss made about it. The fur Tony is still clinging to falls down his shoulders and pools around him as he settles. Steve moves him around to open his zipper and free himself from his suit pants. As is always the case in Tony's presence, he's fully hard in a couple of strokes. 

Without preamble, Tony grasps the armrests by his side and lifts himself up. It's just enough for Steve to press his cock between his cheeks until he finds give. And he always does; even after a day or two that sees him only using the man's mouth, he'll come back to find him barely requiring a stretch. On a usual business day, Tony will be slick and yielding without fail because Steve has found he likes to indulge in his heightened libido now that he has someone to stoke the flames of his desire. 

Once lined up, Tony sinks down, carefully first and then all at once when his arms fail to hold him up. Steve grunts at the sudden, all-consuming warmth and pressure and reflexively bucks his hips upward, relishing in Tony's answering moan that all but gets punched out of him. 

'Glorified blow-up doll' is what Tony called himself during one of his more lucid moments, and Steve supposes it's true but only in regard to his participation in the act. Everything else–from the feel of his tight, sucking heat to the sound of his desperate whimpers–is quite unlike an inanimate object. 

He knows from the way Tony shifts in his lap that he expects him to move. Usually, he'll grab him by the waist and go at whichever speed he's in the mood for at the moment. Today is a little different. What he needs today has less to do with pleasure and a little more with power. 

"You just sit," Steve tells him as another knock on the door announces the end of the five minutes. "If you so much as squirm, I expect you to go all the way and start fucking yourself in front of her."

Romanoff is the same as he remembers her: a flash of red clad in all black, wearing her tangy perfume the same way she does cool poise. She doesn't even bat an eyelid when the first face she sees isn't Steve but Tony, in his lap and naked, nor does she miss a beat when Steve invites her to sit on the chair across from him. 

He offers her the vodka and she accepts, as is the proper thing to do when concluding a business. She doesn't wait for him to swallow first; poison wouldn't be in his interest and it wouldn't affect him to a noticeable degree anyway. After she's downed the shot, she sets the glass facedown on the desk and leans back, gaze assessing. 

Tony hates having his chest exposed most of all, yet the dimly glowing center that is his heart is at full display now, the fur blanket draped over the side of the chair. Steve can practically feel the effort with which he resists the urge to twist away and hide from her intrusive stare. 

Romanoff then looks at Steve. He expects her to fully disregard the situation at hand, but ends up surprised once more when she says, "That answers why there's no decent nanotech to be found anywhere." 

There's no judgement in her voice, nothing to gauge whether she has an opinion on the matter one way or the other. A personal connection clearly isn't there, but she'll have known of Tony's name and the things told about it and connected the dots. It's a simple statement and one that is true–after half a year, the amount of Tony's tech circulating on the market is scant. 

Tony's walls squeeze around him, his hands curled into fists over his thighs. Steve feels him trembling against him. Evidently, not only being made to sit still but having no choice but to listen _and_ be the conversational topic is taking a lot out of him. Steve already knows he's going to cave eventually and feels the heady thrill of wanton anticipation zap through him at the thought. 

He doesn't respond to the comment. Instead, he holds Romanoff's gaze as he closes his hand around Tony's dick, which he's pleased to find is beginning to show interest in the proceedings. Steve doesn't think she sees, not with the desk in the way, but she's noticed his hand go there and hears the slow drag as he rubs the almost dry skin. 

"I know how to get into Pierce's inner circle, but l'll need a few things to fall back on and make myself credible," Romanoff says, getting to the meat of the topic right away. Were she anyone else, Steve would have assumed it's because she wants it to be over, but that isn't the case here. They're alike in that regard: both of them hate wasted time. 

Romanoff plucks an unassuming piece of paper out of her pocket, feint-ruled and folded once. She slides it to him over the table. Steve nods, not having looked at it. "Consider it done." 

"If anything goes awry, I've never heard of you, but I will–" 

Tony moans through sealed lips and lifts his hips an inch or two to chase the circle of Steve's hand. Then, he freezes. 

Steve sighs deeply, a noise laced with feigned disappointment, and wonders if he sounds as gratified as he feels when he says, "We agreed on something, Tony." 

It takes a little encouragement to get him to move. Tony's grip on the armrest is white-knuckled, fingers digging into the leather; his flesh hand leaves a dent but the metal one rips a hole into the stuffing. He uses it for support to heave himself up, up, up until Steve's slid out most of the way, then whimpers when he goes back down, gnawing at his lip until blood colors it as red as the lipstick does Romanoff's. 

Steve keeps his promises–that much he should know by now. They've been acquainted with each other for a while, after all. 

Next time Tony seats himself back in his lap, the impact produces a wet, smacking sound that has him hide his face in his shoulder. There's little (virtually nothing) that causes him to blush, which makes the rosy color high on his cheekbones currently all the more pretty. Mortification looks good on him, so of course Steve has to add a little something more. 

"Apologize to our guest for interrupting," he orders, "And look at her, will you?"

Tony refuses for all of ten seconds. Steve tightens his fingers around his shaft with enough pressure the pleasure promptly turns into pain. This, he stands for maybe a moment or two before he lifts his head and looks, gasping, at Romanoff, whose expression remains unreadable. Her hands are clasped in her lap right over her crossed legs, posture straight but open like she's interviewing for a position she knows is hers–in fact, that might be an apt description were it not for Tony wrecking himself on Steve's cock. 

"I'm sorry," he tells her, or rather forces it out through grit teeth. Steve hears the reluctance but lets it slide. 

Romanoff nods as if to accept the apology. Steve doesn't see why she would play along other than to humor him, so he considers it a point in his book.

"If they sniff me out, I don't know you, but I will talk if you don't get me out in the next week." 

Steve gives an affirmative. They agreed upon this already and besides, they both know there's no real possibility that particular scenario will come to pass. Even if it did, Steve would have her out before they could pluck a single fingernail. 

"This is a waste," she remarks casually as she stands, pushing her chair in. She's openly observing Tony now, shaking and keening as he continuously fails to lift himself on Steve's cock fast enough to build a rhythm. All of Tony's focus is on the task and hand; he either doesn't notice her eyes on him or has stopped caring.

Steve almost utters an outright growl at the statement–because who is she to insinuate what he's to do with his conquest–but gets a grip on himself in the last moment. 

She adds, "If you're the man I think you are, you'll find a way to do both," and turns to leave without a goodbye. The heavy thud of the door falling close drives home the point. 

As soon as she's out the door, Steve pushes Tony off his lap and bends him over the desk instead. One hand in his hair roughly mashing his face into polished ebony and the other bruising his hip, Steve thrusts into him without consideration or grace. His movements are sloppy and uncoordinated for their desperation, and it all falls apart in minute's time. 

Tony comes first, his spine bowing in pleasure. The metal gleams beautifully in the light overhead. Steve follows. 

Steve keeps him in his lap, soft and limp as his orgasm has left him, while he goes over the mission reports. When he grows frustrated with the incompetence of the people under him, he fucks the emotion into Tony, who to his own future self's dismay, always keens for everything Steve gives him. 

And then again, later, against the window overlooking the city, because Romanoff's words have left him feeling that kind of way.


End file.
